BICENTENNIAL MAN

My buzzer is no longer gentle or autumnal.

BBs ruffle interplanetary fur.

In other words my shower head's whistling is warped;

certain parts of the array's nipple rattle.

Jets are lopped off at the root. Have you ever

been nitpicked?

At the kitchen tile's core, the fossil is visible.

A saw-toothed humanoid insect protrudes from 3D mist.

Electrodes are lasciviously intent on the movable section of

a disease. Ridges on Chilled Thai taint –

a low-hanging window so marvelous,

familiar materials traced in pages that refer

to other pages. My mask is tangible.

Why, I remember asking my robot maid, would the accelerometer

make you prance around like that?

It all started going downhill from there...

From where Bicentennial Man skateboarded

a smidgen of static electricity to death.

Where now a retard dabbles in the colorful husks

of bacteria corpses. Was this just our universe – in

denying its own dearth – being senile?

Something in the vents seems pretty eager to intervene.

I smell ammonia on emotionless breath.

Had I, at some point, pissed on the stove? I remember thinking if

a human's normal distribution points wouldn't 'open up' automatically,

why –

why not jiggle them manually?

Clumps, switched on, form 'mood'. These are the atoms

of nuclear families. They may not be volatile.

An atom is merely a head stuffed until glaring.

It lives in supermarkets. In houses. In schools.

Public transport drags them along. A schoolbus quivers past –

desperately holding on to dirt and other particles.

With nostalgia I think of my robot maid:

her hands could get very cold with eagerness.

But when winding down after a long day, she had a

beautifully weak chin.